


falling down the stairs of your smile

by thethickofit



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Watcher Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Awkward Flirting, Bad Flirting, Drunken Flirting, Flirting, M/M, Shane Flirts A Lot, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23960659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethickofit/pseuds/thethickofit
Summary: Ryan puts on his shoes and slips out into the hallway, walking literally ten feet before knocking on the door. When it opens in front of him, Ryan’s greeted with what must be the strangest shirt-to-pants combo that he’s ever seen.“Uh, hi,” Ryan says. He tries not to stare at the plaid sweatpants and flamingo button-up. “I live next door- I’m Ryan.” He tilts his head to the left towards his own apartment. “I think I have your cat.”Based off of this prompt:Ryan shares a balcony with a perfectly nice dude, but Perfectly Nice Dude's cat keeps sneaking into Ryan's apartment. Ryan is allergic and has to keep bringing the cat back. (It's more romantic than it sounds).
Relationships: Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej
Comments: 9
Kudos: 136





	falling down the stairs of your smile

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off of a prompt by [ebonybow](https://ebonybow.tumblr.com/post/616488407599923200/what-kind-of-non-supernatural-shyan-au-do-you) on Tumblr!
> 
> The original prompt is: AU where Ryan shares a balcony with a perfectly nice dude, but Perfectly Nice Dude’s cat keeps sneaking into Ryan’s apartment to sleep on his bed, and Ryan is allergic and has to keep bringing the cat back. Perfectly Nice Dude becomes Incredibly Nice Dude and starts leaving allergy meds and care packages for Ryan as an apology (and maybe he keeps letting his cat escape because he wants an excuse to keep talking to his cute neighbor).
> 
> The only difference is that they don't share a balcony. Cats can jump.
> 
> (I don't follow the prompt exactly, but I was pretty faithful to it). 
> 
> Title comes from a song by the same name by The New Pornographers.

Ryan’s gotten pretty damn good at living on his own.

It’s been nice so far, and as much as he misses his roommates, he honestly doesn't miss their bad habits at all. He doesn’t miss cleaning up after three other guys nor does he have to worry about them sneaking his food from the fridge when they think he won’t notice. Now, he can even struggle through playing little tunes on his guitar in the living room without judgment.

He can come and go as he pleases without raising suspicion (he’s gotten Taco Bell at one am a few more times than is what’s probably acceptable).

For the first time in his adult life, he has a washer/dryer combo and an actual couch and a dishwasher and a balcony that faces a semi-busy street, all of which is what Ryan’s always considered to be the brand of a true adult.

He's twenty-three, and for the most part, life right now is pretty damn good. He’s got a degree that he likes and a job that he kind of likes. He has friends that he hangs out with weekly and at the present, there’s not much more he could ask for.

♔

Los Angeles is _hot_ in the summer.

Ryan knows he should probably be used to it by now, especially since he’s lived here for his, well, _entire_ life. But still, when it’s eighty degrees in his living room and almost ninety degrees outside, even he starts to get a bit antsy.

The days are long and the nights are even longer, it seems. He’s spent the better part of his weekend watching horror movies for nostalgia, which probably isn’t the best idea when one lives alone, but it’s a guilty pleasure that Ryan can’t deny himself.

He’s in the middle of _Psycho_ and it’s pushing midnight when he hears a loud crash and what sounds like claws scuttling on the floor of his linoleum-tiled kitchen, and Ryan makes a mental note that he needs to buy a baseball bat, a katana, _something_.

He gets up from the couch and creeps over towards the kitchen counter, and is relieved to find behind it an orange, wide-eyed cat instead of the poltergeist he was expecting to duke it out with.

They stare at each other.

Ryan doesn’t have a cat, of course. He’s always been more of a doxie type of guy.

“Hey, uh, buddy,” Ryan soothes as he tries to figure out 1. How this cat got into his apartment and 2. How this cat is going to get _out_ of his apartment.

He walks towards the tabby like he’s Chris Pratt approaching some velociraptors and then remembers just in time that he wouldn’t even be able to pick up the damn thing without his arms breaking out into a very unpleasant rash.

The cat dons an orange collar with a tag in the shape of a heart, but it bolts away when Ryan tries to step closer to see.

“Ok, different plan then,” Ryan devises aloud. He paces back toward the living room, where he sees that he’d left his balcony door open to let some cool air in.

Upon closer inspection, he sees that the screen door has been nudged open to a cat-sized width.

So, the cat belongs to one of his neighbors then. (Or lives nearby, at the very least). Ryan wanders out to the balcony, which he admittedly doesn’t spend that much time lounging on.

He’s enjoying the cool air (after a week of temperatures above ninety, it’s nice when it finally drops down to sixty-five at night) when he notices that the balcony to the right of his has a very pathetic looking pot of catnip struggling to grow on its ledge.

Bingo.

He’s only met his neighbor once in the month that he’s lived here.

He’s a tall, ( _very_ tall), guy with funny clear-rimmed glasses and the clunkiest boots Ryan’s ever seen in his life. Ryan had held the hallway door open for him when he noticed him carrying more bags of groceries than he could handle, and that had been that.

Ryan puts on his shoes and slips out into the hallway, walking literally ten feet before knocking on the door. When it opens in front of him, Ryan’s greeted with what must be the strangest shirt-to-pants combo that he’s ever seen.

“Uh, hi,” Ryan says. He tries not to stare at the plaid sweatpants and flamingo button-up. “I live next door- I’m Ryan.” He tilts his head to the left towards his own apartment. “I think I have your cat.”

The man doesn’t even miss a beat. “I _knew_ it was getting a little too quiet in here. I’m sorry, I left my balcony door open because it was so hot out earlier. I fell asleep on the couch and I guess the little guy took his chance and made a run for it.”

Ryan gives him an easy grin. The man has a surprisingly handsome face, and he’s _tall,_ like, to the point where being any taller would incite medical concern.

“Well, uh, case solved then,” Ryan declares. “Do you think you could come over and nab him? I’m allergic to cats, unfortunately. They make me itchy as all hell.”

“Of course,” the man says as he steps out and follows Ryan to his apartment. “I’m Shane, by the way. Didn’t you just move in?”

“About a month ago,” Ryan replies as he opens his door.

“Well, it’s nice to finally meet you.” Shane kind of toes awkwardly behind him as Ryan enters his apartment as if he’s not sure if he should come in even though Ryan explicitly asked him to.

When they enter, the cat is still sitting in the kitchen, this time looking more curious than scared.

“Obi! Come here, guy,” Shane exclaims, bending over and scooping the cat up in his arms like a big baby, which is, to Ryan’s surprise, pretty damn endearing.

“Sorry he gave you some trouble,” Shane says, scratching Obi (or maybe it’s just O.B? Ryan wonders) behind the ears. Obi/O.B purrs up a storm against his chest.

“He’s cute. If I wasn’t so allergic, I probably would’ve kept him for myself,” Ryan lies.

Shane laughs. “Alright, well, thanks again. I’ll try to keep my doors shut from now on.”

“I’ll see you around,” Ryan says as Shane leaves.

“Yeah, I look forward to it.”

♔

A few days later, Ryan comes back from the grocery store to find a paper bag on his doorstep, like one that his mom would pack his lunch in for school.

He knows he’s an idiot to bring a mystery bag inside his home, but Ryan does it anyway.

After setting his groceries on the kitchen counter, he edges the bag open with cautious fingers.

Inside he finds a tiny pill bottle with PET ALLERGY RELIEF printed in bold across its labeling.

Stuck to the bottle, a little post-it note: _In case Obi feels like visiting again._

Ryan grins a little and decides to add the bottle to his ever-growing collection of multi-vitamins and protein powers (all of which had been amassed in his attempts to not get scurvy now that his roommates aren't there to admonish his eating habits).

♔

A week later, when Shane catches Ryan in the hallway and asks if he’s available to cat sit, Ryan almost thinks it’s a joke.

He’s dressed normally this time, Ryan notices. Just a striped t-shirt and some green chinos.

“I’m going to Chicago this weekend and I really don’t want to take him to a kennel,” Shane explains. “And I don’t know any of my coworkers well enough to ask them to do it.”

Ryan must look hesitant because Shane continues: “You wouldn’t even have to touch him if that’s what you’re worried about. All you’ll have to do is stop by twice a day and fill up water and put out his food. I’ll pay you.”

Ryan pretends to think about it, even though he can’t think of any valid reason to say no, and there’s just something about Shane that urges him to say yes.

“Sure, sure I can,” Ryan agrees. “I take care of my friends’ cats all the time,” he lies.

Shane’s eyes light up. “Thanks! Kennels are usually $35 a night, so maybe I could pay you $50?”

“Ah, it’s okay. Money isn’t necessary,” Ryan insists. As awesome as $50 a night would be, his mom raised him to be polite to the point of resentment, ergo, he must refuse any monetary advances offered to him when doing a favor.

Shane rolls his eyes in faux annoyance. “So you’re one of _those_ people. How about this- I’ll buy you dinner when I get back.”

Now, Ryan doesn’t quite know what to say to _that._

Shane’s looking at him expectantly.

“Uh, I like Mexican food,” Ryan offers after a pause.

Shane gives him a knowing wink. “ _Anyway_ , here’s my number, in case anything happens, or if you have a funny joke, either or. I’d prefer the latter.”

He hands Ryan a slip of paper, old school style, the same way a girl once did to Ryan in middle school because she was too afraid to offer it to him outright.

“I leave on Friday- two days from now- and my flight’s at four in the morning, so I’ll just put my key in your mailbox when I leave. Sounds good?”

Ryan nods and ponders how he’d even gotten into this situation. Initially, he’d ran downstairs to grab his charger from his car, and now he’s back with Shane’s phone number in his hands and an agreement to watch a cat that he’s allergic to.

“I like burritos,” Ryan decides to double down on his bit.

“Gotcha,” Shane winks at him _again._ “I have to go to work, but I’ll see you, okay?”

“That explains the hairstyle,” Ryan quips.

“Hey,” Shane warns. “This is very in style these days.”

“You look like a bird.”

Shane laughs. “Maybe I’ll fix it in the car. For real, see you later, Ryan.”

“Sure thing,” Ryan offers in lieu of goodbye.

He enters his apartment and unfolds on the couch. An hour passes before he stops thinking about Shane and his stupid hair.

♔

That night, Ryan puts the number into his phone, sets up the contact as _Shane_ and googles a random picture of a ginger tabby to set as his contact image. Hesitantly, he shoots off a text before fully considering the ramifications of sounding so eager to talk.

_So… what’s going on in Chicago?_

_If I may ask_

He sets the phone down and wanders off to brush his teeth. When he comes back, a reply.

_Visiting family_

_Haven’t seen em in awhile_

_You know how it is_

_That’s cool_

_Planning on doing anything fun?_

_Besides getting lectured by your parents?_

_Ha ha_

_Might have some fun and shovel snow off the driveway_

_It’s...June_

_My dad will find a way_

They text innocuously back and forth all night until Ryan realizes that it’s _way_ later than he thought it was. He hasn’t stayed up late texting someone since, well, high school, back when he had a girlfriend that had a habit of checking up on him a little too frequently.

Talking to Shane is easy though, at least through text. However, it’s almost four in the morning and he has work at ten. Ryan sends off a quick _goodnight_ and forces himself to shut off his phone.

♔

On Friday, Ryan resists the urge to text Shane until at least lunchtime. Shane probably spent most of his morning dealing with the hell that is LAX and O’Hare, and Ryan doesn’t want to bug him.

It’s an hour to twelve when Ryan gives in.

_How are things?_

_The guy sitting next to me was snoring_

_The entire time_

_And I think the seats are designed with the_ goal _of giving you a crick in the neck_

_That’s what you get for not being business class_

_Who am I??_

_Prince Harry??_

_I’m not booking business for a four-hour flight_

_That’s fair_

_My mom wants me to help her clean out the attic today_

_I can’t believe I’m here to do chores_

_I don’t even do chores in my own house_

_Yeah, I know_

_I just fed Obi_

_Your living room is a mess_

_Why do you have a butterfly encased in glass_

_Why_ don’t _I have a butterfly encased in glass_

_It’s beautiful_

_I saw your framed LeBron jersey hanging in your living room_

_Develop some taste, Ryan_

Later on, when Shane informs him that he’s going to get lunch with his dad, Ryan backs off. 

For the rest of the weekend they message sparsely because Ryan doesn’t want to make him obligated to respond. Shane does, however, send the occasional amusing photo.

Unprompted, Ryan receives a photo of the iconic Bean. Someone else had taken the photo of him, probably one of his parents, and Shane’s standing under its arch, pretending to hold it up. He’s wearing a ridiculous outfit again, fingerless gloves and a jean jacket stacked on a hoodie stacked on a button-up. Absolutely appalling.

Nonetheless, the photo makes Ryan smile because it means that Shane had been thinking of him, at least enough to send it.

Ryan sends back a photo of the bowl of popcorn that he’s planning on destroying while he marathons through the first two _Purge_ movies, and Shane just sends back: _love it._

♔

If Shane is anything, he’s a man of his word.

When he gets back from LA on Monday evening, he wastes no time arranging a dinner date. He lets Ryan choose the place (lets, more like forces), and Ryan chooses a cheap little food truck that he frequents often because he’s way too polite to make Shane break the bank for his sake.

When they meet up in the parking lot of their complex, Ryan realizes that it’s the first time they’ve seen each other in person since Shane asked him to cat sit. There’s an uncertain pause when they realize they would be idiots to _not_ carpool.

“I’ll drive,” Ryan offers first, because he admittedly feels uncomfortable whenever he’s not the one behind the wheel.

Shane agrees, probably because Ryan declares it with such conviction that he’s unwilling to fight it. He’s wearing a jean jacket and a black turtleneck, a look that Ryan would’ve found insufferable on literally _anyone_ else. On Shane, however, it just kind of makes sense.

Ryan drives for fifteen minutes towards the edges of a residential area where there’s an always-reliable taco truck parked in the corner of an empty parking lot. He’d been a little worried that he’d have difficulty making conversation in person after spending the past few days communicating exclusively over text, but he’s quick to find out that Shane’s just as chatty and witty in person.

He tells Ryan about cleaning out his family’s attic ( _I probably inhaled like, five pounds of dust),_ and going out for dinner with his friends from college.

“It was nice,” Shane concludes, as they pull up to a curb. The taco truck awaits them at the corner of the next block. “It’s funny. I always thought Chicago would feel like home, but now that I’m back in LA, it feels _right._ ”

They step out of the car and Shane follows Ryan to the truck. Shane sheepishly confesses-slash-apologizes before ordering what might be the blandest thing on the menu, and Ryan laughs.

They walk back to the car. Ryan usually likes to sit on the curb whenever he comes here alone, but he realizes that Shane’s legs are most likely to long to sit like that comfortably. So, Ryan pops the trunk and they sit on its edge while balancing their plates on their knees.

It’s a nice evening. The sun’s been settled for about an hour and the horizon above the houses surrounding them is a gradient of pink and orange.

“You’re a cheap date,” Shane remarks between bites of his burrito. “That only cost me $20. I have pairs of socks more expensive than that.”

Ryan gives him a look.

“Oh, don’t glare at me like that. They’re _luxury_ socks,” Shane tries to explain. “They're supposed to be quaint. They have little trumpets on them.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Ryan smiles.

“I like to wear them to work. People usually get a kick out of it.”

“Where _do_ you work?” Ryan finally asks. For the amount they’ve been talking and texting, Ryan is surprised when he realizes that he doesn’t actually know that much about Shane.

“I’m a teacher,” Shane says. “Well, kind of. I’m a student-teacher. And before you ask, yes, it sucks.”

“Honestly, I never would’ve guessed,” Ryan admits. Shane’s a weird guy, so he would’ve pegged him as something just as weird, like a professional oboe player or a poet,

“Since January I’ve been working at a high school in Glendale.” Shane shakes his head, but he’s got a fond grin on his face. “These kids man, you wouldn’t believe them.”

Ryan nods. He definitely gave his high school teachers a headache or two, but he probably shouldn’t admit that to Shane. Hell, he can probably figure that one out on his own.

“Teenagers, they don’t have a damn about history,” he continues. “To be frank, I don’t blame ‘em. What fifteen-year-old gives a shit about learning about the origins of Baroque art?”

Ryan isn’t sure if he should answer the question or if it was rhetorical. “So… you teach history,” he says instead.

“I grade papers, mostly, or I substitute when my supervisor isn’t there, which is how I know _exactly_ how much these kids don’t give a shit. As I said, I’m only a student-teacher. I’m basically an intern.”

It’s hard to imagine Shane teaching, maybe because he doesn’t exactly act like an authority figure. Still, it's fun to imagine.

“History itself is fascinating though. Always fun to learn how civilizations rise and fall.”

Ryan nods. He’d never been much of a history guy, but he thinks he can see the appeal.

“How about you?” Shane asks.

Ryan leans back and stretches his legs out. He’s a quick eater, and he’s almost done with his burrito.

“Well, it’s kind of complicated. I graduated a year ago with the intention of doing more school and becoming a dental student.”

For some reason, Shane breaks out into a smirk.

“I currently work at my dad’s dental office doing a variety of tasks, but I’m not sure if that’s something I’ll want to do in the future.”

“Look at you,” Shane’s eyes seem to twinkle, as kitsch as that may seem. “You’re practically a doctor!”

Ryan rolls his eyes. “Please, all I have is a B.A in Biology and I practically cheated my way through all of my classes. Implying that I could ever develop the work ethic to become a doctor is an insult to doctors anywhere.”

“Now I know who I’ll be calling if I need to get a crown put in,” Shane winks. “Do you think you could get me a discount?”

“I can’t even get myself a discount,” Ryan groans, which draws out an unexpected laugh from Shane.

It’s right there and then that Ryan experiences the revelation that Shane’s weird in the way that he’s cool, but not superficial, which are the two things that Ryan had always assumed were incongruous with one another. He’s charming, and he’s got a handsome face, sophisticated, almost, without all the snobbery or tactlessness that seems characteristic of everyone living in LA.

It's a fraught, almost horrifying moment when he realizes he is, in short, everything that Ryan’s into.

They talk about what they like about living in LA (the weather, the food, the people) and what they hate (the traffic, the cost, and, again, the people).

When they finally finish eating, it’s only eight, and in the back of his mind, Ryan thinks that it would be weird to go back home when it’s still so early.

So naturally, he asks Shane if he wants to go get a drink.

“I’m not really a drinker,” Shane warns. “Whenever I drink I get, uh.”

“Emotional?” Ryan guesses.

“I get _ambitious_ , more like it,” Shane says. He sounds like he’s joking. Almost.

“I can’t say the same. I’m still a frat boy at heart, I think,” Ryan laughs.

“I was never in a frat,” Shane muses. “In college I’d- I usually spent my Friday nights at The Laugh Factory. You know, because I’m a white guy.”

Ryan laughs _again,_ and now, he notices that his laughs around Shane are genuine.

This time, Shane chooses the place. They drive forty minutes to Old Hollywood, to a former speakeasy, with Shane directing him where to go instead of setting up a GPS. Once inside, he's jarred to find that it's a bit classy and a bit weird, but Ryan decides he can probably learn to love classy and weird.

The place is surprisingly busy for a Monday night, and Ryan gets a little giddy when he realizes that all of the drinks are named after old Hollywood movie references.

They order their drinks and Shane pays _again_ when Ryan isn’t even looking. They both settle at the bar.

Shane’s long legs almost graze Ryan’s with how close they’re sitting. And they aren’t even drunk yet.

“Fun fact, this is the first restaurant I went to when I first moved here,” Shane tells him. His face is the soft orange glow of the bar lights.

Ryan can’t tell if he’s joking. “Restaurant?”

“They sell wings, I think.” Okay, he’s joking.

“But, yeah. I moved out to LA. Realized that I’ve never been to a speakeasy before, and so I came here.”

“This place is special to you.”

“A bit, yeah.”

 _And you invited me here_ , Ryan can’t help but think. He’s got a weird feeling in his stomach, a strange knotted sensation just below his heart.

Shane smiles at him.

♔

When Shane claimed that he wasn’t a drinker, he was _fucking lying_.

Ryan hadn’t expected him to get so drunk so _fast_ , and by the time they’re on their second drinks Ryan is still half sober and Shane’s singing the chorus to Landslide into a karaoke mic. He’s absolutely terrible.

And Ryan’s absolutely charmed.

Shane’s immune to embarrassment, it seems. Even when a few other patrons form a scattered group around them to (ironically) cheer him on, Shane doesn’t seem to care.

“It’s a good song, Ryan,” Shane tells him after reveling in his score of seventy-five. “Love The Chain. Fleetwood Mac- man, they were really onto something there. I got a little emotional. I think I almost cried, Ryan.”

For what must be for the millionth time that night, Ryan laughs.

♔

It’s pushing three when they get back to their apartment complex.

“I have work in the morning,” Shane sighs as they walk up the stairs to the second floor.

Ryan is immediately apologetic. “Oh, shit,” he says. “I didn’t realize- I wouldn’t have asked to go out if-”

“I knew what I was getting myself into,” Shane declares. They’re standing in front of the entrance to Ryan’s apartment now.

“You could do what I did in college. Wear sunglasses and carry around a gallon of water. Or- wear your trumpet socks and maybe people won’t notice.”

Shane snorts. “I’ll just deal with it. Like I said… I’m not really a drinker.”

“Did you _see_ yourself two hours ago?”

“Correction, I don’t drink _often_ , but when I do, I go hard, _baby_.”

They’re standing pretty close now, and Shane hasn’t made a move for his apartment, and they’re close enough that if Ryan just took a step forward maybe he could-

“Have fun at school tomorrow,” Ryan blurts out instead, and all of a sudden he’s got his keys in hand as he twists open his doorknob.

Shane smiles at him sincerely, nods. Maybe Ryan’s imagining things, but he can see in his eyes just a tinge of disappointment. “I’ll see you.”

♔

The next morning, Ryan wakes up to a text from Shane sent at, yikes, six.

He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and props himself into an uncomfortable position on his elbow.

_This is a weird question but are you free next week? Do you like amusement parks?_

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking about making this maybe 2 or 3 chapters total. (The next chapter will take place during Halloween, wink wink). Please let me know of any typos or general errors that should be corrected.


End file.
